Page 10 of The Lord’s Reluctant Lady (Sisters of Ember Hall #2)

“Let me help you down,” he urged, placing his hands around her waist and lifting her easily towards him.

But Mirrie held herself stiff and taut, not relaxing into his arms as he had expected.

He steadied her on the cobbles. “We made it,” he added, wanting to soothe her anxiety. “The hard bit is over.”

Mirrie gave a small shake of her head. “I fear it is only just beginning.”

Before he could respond, a flurry of grooms approached to untack the horses and lead them away. Tristan nodded in response to their greetings and when he next looked over at Mirrie, she was better composed; her hands folded neatly before her.

“’Tis good to see you again, Miss Mirabel.”

Gerrault’s sincerity brought a proper smile to her lips.

“You too, Gerrault. I am glad that naught e’er seems to change at Wolvesley.”

A flicker of anxiety passed over the stable master’s face, but he nodded smartly.

“Where is my mother?” Tristan asked. She was usually to be found somewhere about the stables or the paddocks.

Gerrault hesitated. “We have not seen the countess for nigh on two days.”

That seemed troubling. Tristan held out his arm for Mirrie and nodded his head towards Gerrault. “We shall look inside.”

The path from the stable yard to the castle keep was as familiar as the back of Tristan’s hand.

They walked quickly under the high stone archway and passed through sweeping, well-tended lawns before reaching the sparkling fountain which arched into the deep blue sky.

Mirrie paused for a moment, tugging on his arm as she gazed, entranced, at the foaming waters.

“I had forgotten how beautiful it is,” she breathed.

Aye. It was beautiful. But Tristan was impatient to move on.

“It will still be here on the morrow.” He smiled to take the sting from his words.

Mirrie was behaving more like a visitor to Wolvesley than a young woman who had grown up within its walls. She gazed at the intricately carved stone lions which guarded the steps to the keep with her hazel eyes open wide.

“They will also be here on the morrow,” he reminded her.

“’Tis all too easy to become immune to this grandeur when you see it every day.” She nudged him sharply with her elbow. “You should take the time to appreciate what you have.”

He did appreciate what he had. But one thing war had taught him was that everything could change in an instant. And right now, he had no wish to moon over fountains or lions when he had the nagging sense that something was wrong. All he wanted was to get to the bottom of it. The sooner the better.

Eventually, she allowed him to lead her into the keep, their boots rapping against the marble tiles in the entrance hall which was surprisingly quiet. Usually Wolvesley hummed with activity and servants running this way and that, but today just one guard stood to attention by the front steps.

Tristan placed his hands on his hips and gazed about. “Where is everyone?” His words ricocheted off the frescoed walls and reverberated up to the vaulted ceiling, high above their heads.

Mirrie was wide-eyed all over again. “This is most unusual.” She caught at his arm. “Tris, we should take heed.”

But he had already set off, taking the polished wooden stairs two at a time in his haste.

He wasted no time in going to his own chamber and headed straight to the ladies’ solar where he expected to find his mother.

But the familiar figure of his mother’s maid, standing to attention by his father’s chamber, stopped him in his tracks.

“Molly.” He strode over to her, his heavy footsteps making the wall torches flicker. “Why are you keeping watch here?”

Molly bobbed into a curtsy. Her chestnut hair was tidily pinned beneath her servant’s cap as usual, but her warm brown eyes were tinged red, as if she had been crying.

“Your mother’s orders, milord.”

Tristan was aware of Mirrie coming to her side and laying a hand on his shoulder. “Are they in there?” he demanded. “I wish to speak with them.”

Molly pressed her lips together in distress. “They are inside with the physician but Lady Morwenna said I was to admit no one.”

This was growing more and more concerning.

“Come, Tris. We should wait downstairs.” Mirrie’s voice was soft against his ear.

Tristan wanted to demand answers, but Mirrie’s calming influence prevailed.

“Very well,” he muttered.

“I will tell my lady that you have arrived,” Molly called after them.

Tristan only grunted in reply.

“Will we wait in the great hall?” Mirrie asked.

The great hall at Wolvesley was a vast, public space, usually filled with minstrels and knights and castle servants. Tristan shook his head. The idea of being in full public view did not sit well with him.

“I have no desire for company,” he declared. “Not until someone will tell me what is going on. Let us go to my father’s solar.”

“Will your father not mind?” Mirrie’s eyebrows disappeared beneath her hair.

Tristan made an impatient gesture. “He claims to want to hand the running of the estate over to me. In theory, he already has. Some of it anyway. I have as much right to the books and ledgers in the solar as my father. And besides, he will not be using it right now.”

Shaking off a complicated swell of emotion, Tristan marched down the passageway and flung open the carved wooden door to the solar.

A fusty smell met him, as if the door had not been opened for several days.

The chamber within was stuffy; the shutters fastened closed.

Mirrie wasted no time in stepping past him and flinging them open, bringing light and fresh air into the masculine space.

Tristan had been coming in here since he was a boy.

He would sit on his father’s knee whilst the earl worked at his polished wooden desk, making his own painstaking marks on old pieces of parchment.

Later, he would sit in one of the over-stuffed chairs by the fire, listening attentively as his father explained the running of their vast estate to his eldest son.

The chamber was filled with books and precarious piles of parchment.

It had always smelled of leather; the scent he associated with his father.

Today, it was merely hot and airless, and a feeling of loss washed over him.

“I shall go and fetch refreshments from the kitchen.” Mirrie was practical.

“Nay.” He shook his head decisively. “You should not be running back and forth to the kitchens like a servant.”

Her reply was gentle. “But there are no servants about.”

“And why is that?” He flung his arms wide. “What is happening here?”

“Your father is clearly unwell. Perchance your mother bade the servants to stay away from the family quarters today.” With a meaningful look, she turned away from him and walked from the room.

Tristan balled his hand into a fist. He knew what she was trying to say, but he would not, could not accept it.

His father was not about to die. Not today. Nor the morrow. Nor any time soon.

To kill the time until his mother was available to come speak to him, he wandered over to the desk and lowered himself into a sturdy wooden chair with elaborate carvings on the arms and legs.

The chair evoked yet another childhood memory; the face of a roaring lion was carved into the back and young Tristan had spent many happy hours tracing the curving lines with his fingers.

Now he drummed his fingers onto the unsettlingly tidy desk as pinpricks of worry broke through his previously impenetrable barriers.

It was the silence that unsettled him so. Wolvesley was not meant to be a quiet castle. He had never known it so devoid of life and laughter. The absence of sound allowed his fears to fester.

He must do something. Talk to someone. Brimming with impatience, he stood up, causing the chair to scrape loudly against the wooden floor—at the same moment the chamber door swung open. Mirrie started in surprise and some of the wine she was carrying slopped over the sides of the pitcher.

“I’m sorry,” they both said at once.

“Here, let me help you.” Tristan rushed forward to relieve her of her burden.

He poured the wine, passed her a goblet and they both drank deeply.

“Forsooth, I needed that.” He wiped his lips with his hand. “Food would make us feel even better. I will go to the kitchens myself and ask for bread and cheese.”

Mirrie tried and failed to hide her smile. “Do you recall your way to the kitchens?”

“Of course.” But she was right. It had been some years since he had last been there. And then it had only been to swipe freshly baked cakes from the store.

A commotion by the doorway made them both turn.

“Mother,” he exclaimed.

His mother was a small, slight woman with silvery blonde hair and beautiful green eyes that had always been able to read the secrets of his soul. He had never before seen her face so drawn, nor her body sway with grief and weariness.

“Welcome home, my boy.” Despite it all, her smile was still warm. “And Mirrie too. What a lovely surprise.” She took Mirrie’s hands in her own and kissed them before stepping into Tristan’s embrace. He was shocked at how frail she felt in his arms.

“What is happening here, Mother?” He pulled back to better look at her. Morwenna, Countess of Wolvesley, had always been more at home in the paddocks than in a ballroom. She loved to be out-of-doors, and usually her cheeks shone with the bloom of good health. Today, she was pale and fragile.

She pressed her lips together and looked at him sorrowfully. “I’m afraid it is your father.”

He heard Mirrie exclaim and was dimly aware that she had lowered herself into a chair.

“What did the physician say?” he demanded. Surely the man could prescribe some curative potion that would see the Earl of Wolvesley regain his strength and vigour.

“Oh, Tristan.” His mother’s eyes grew glassy with tears. “He said that we should prepare for the worst.”